


It matters

by red375



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Politics, Slow Burn, because character arcs matter, forgiveness/ redemption is earned, s8 fixit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-05-07 06:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19203859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red375/pseuds/red375
Summary: “Do you matter now?” Bran asks. A pause.“You and Cersei never did.”He always assumed he’d be remembered for something. For Aerys. For Cersei. For“Brienne does”





	1. What matters?

**Jaime**

The first thing he feels when the blackness lifts is pain. A dull, throbbing agony in his side. _Euron Greyjoy’s last gift._ It doesn’t seem fitting; that he would die at the hands of an upstart pirate king, deep underground. When he was young, he dreamed of dying on the battle field in glory. A final charge that won the day but saw him mortally wounded. Facing down a dragon. _I tried that. It didn’t take._

His eyes are open now, but he lies in the dark. Squinting, he makes out a stone wall directly in front of him, blocking his view. Momentarily, he wonders if he is in the dungeons. Then he registers the soft silks beneath him, and the cotton blankets covering him. Prisoners aren’t given beds.

He inhales slightly as he wakes more fully, and moans as his ribcage stretches, a stabbing pain shooting up from his side. 

A cry comes from behind him. Footsteps on the floor, hurrying over. He turns his head slowly, and sees a simple room. A desk sits in the corner, with candle askew and chair pulled out; recently vacated by its occupant. That occupant appears in his field of view. Blond hair, and a scar running down his face.

“You are awake.” Tyrion almost sounds disappointed. He looks miserable, lines creasing his face, beard reaching his collar.

A flurry of questions passes through his head. So many things may have happened. Too many people to worry about. Too many people he’s failed.

 _His brother. Safe, evidently. Brienne. He can’t ask after her. Cersei. The babe._  

“Cersei?”

Tyrion winces, and his gaze drops. His eyes fix on the floor.

“Dead” He says softly.

               _Dead._ It doesn’t feel real. He cannot be alive if his other half is gone. _We will die together, as we were born together._ She repeated the mantra constantly. Not death in battle, death protecting her. That was the death he expected. The death she wanted. He stops. The death _he_ wanted.

               “Why?” he groans. “Why did you save me? I would have died as I deserved to.”

               Tyrion’s face falls more. “You are my brother.” He says simply. “Of course I saved you. I could do nothing else. I would do nothing else. I love you.”

               Jaime notices Tyrion doesn’t argue that he doesn’t deserve to die.

               He wonders if this is the punishment the gods decided he deserved. He lives. His children die. _He stops_. And Cersei. Cersei died too. He should be grieving her. He should be furious. He should be marching down to the throne room now to kill the new Queen, as he killed her father. He promised her. He’d kill everyone until they were the only ones left. _Two halves of a whole._ _No one else matters._

               He doesn’t feel angry now. Just tired. And empty.

               If he had died and she had lived, she’d be plotting revenge now. She’d make a list of people to kill. People to torture. It would be a very long list. He should do as she would. Butcher all their foes. Stab the Dragon Queen through the heart. Have Jon Snow torn apart by wolves. Actually track down a trebuchet for Sam and Gilly’s baby. Sansa – she’d plan something very special for Sansa. The wench would try to prevent it and he’d …

               He feels suddenly, as if the pain in his side has multiplied and spread across his entire body. His eyes water. _Brienne._ Where was Brienne now? Knocking someone into the dust no doubt. Probably Podrick. Pod. Cersei would kill Pod too. Sweet innocent Pod. _I never really cared, innocent or otherwise._ Brienne would kill her for that. And then. And then. He couldn’t kill Brienne. Not even if it was Cersei’s dying request.

He scolds himself for his weakness. Of course, he’d kill whoever killed _her_. He’s a hateful man. What did Brienne mean to him, compared to her. Beside him, Tyrion shuffles his feet. 

               Tyrion. He inhales sharply as he realized who would be at the top of her list. Tyrion, whom she always hated most, regardless of his efforts. Tyrion, whom she could have mothered after theirs had died. _He stamps down a traitorous thought that whispered that the last child she paid attention to became Joffrey._ Tyrion, who in spite of all she did to him, still tried to save her. He wonders why.

               Now it is him who cannot meet Tyrion’s eyes. He realizes his brother has said something. Has quite possibly been saying something for the past few minutes.

               He can’t focus on Tyrion. Can’t focus on anything but the pain, and his thoughts. He closes his eyes in despair. A pair of sapphires shine behind the lids. He opens his eyes and meets Tyrion’s worried gaze.

               “You’ll stay here for now. When you are recovered, you will be taken to stand trial.” Tyrion states.

               “What’s the point of healing me, only to burn me alive tomorrow.” He asks bitterly. Tyrion tries to say something, words of comfort. Assurances that he will live, that Tyrion will fight for him. It does nothing but finally ignite the rage building inside him.

               “Get out.” He says flatly. “Let me die in peace, if you will not allow me to do so on my own terms.”

\-----------------------------------

               Jaime can walk now. With the aid of a cane, but still. It is better than lying in bed all day wondering is going on. He’s surprised he hasn’t been dragged out to face the executioners yet. Five unsullied accompany him wherever he goes. He wonders if they really fear the old cripple, or simply want to ensure the Kingslayer knows his place. If it’s the latter, the attempt at intimidation falls short. No one other than Danerys’ troops seem to care about him, and none of the nobles and Northerners arriving for the conference even bother to spit on him.

               The delegation from Winterfell arrived three days ago. He peered out the window as they approached, not knowing what he was looking for until he found it. A blond head, standing tall among the dark Northerners.

               Brienne has not come to see him yet. He cannot decide if he wants her to or not.

               Somehow, he ends up in the Godswood. He goes in not out of respect to the Old gods, but when he notices the Unsullied follow less closely here. They do not enter the woods, but wait outside and he wonders what lies inside that troubles them so.

               Bran.

               The boy sits next to the weir wood tree, waiting. He feels a flash of shame as he gazes upon the wheeled chair. He has done too many hateful things to count, but that is one of the few deeds he sincerely regrets. That and one other. _A flash of snow and tears in a courtyard._ He pushes the thought away. 

Bran displays no surprise at Jaime’s approach. He never does – it is as if he knows everyone’s intentions, and location.

Jaime has questions. More now than when he woke up. But he remembers the last conversation they shared, and there is one he wants to ask.

“Why?” he says simply. His voice rises “What was the point? What was the fucking point?”

“You said I had a role to play. So tell me one thing I did that actually _mattered_.”

“Riding north was useless. I did next to nothing in the battle against the dead. But you said I had a task to complete. So I tried to do _something!_ I rode south to assist in the next war. I was going to convince Cersei to surrender, I was going to save the city, I was going to save her and the babe. But I failed.

I rang the bells. I ordered the Lannister men to lay down their arms. The city would have been taken peacefully. But the dragon queen didn’t listen, did she? So, I kept trying. I killed Euron, I reached Cersei. And she still died. Right in front of me. She would have died whether I was there or not. The city would have burned whether I was there or not!”

He is shaking as he finishes, rage echoing through his entire body. As he breathes in and out, he calms enough to ask the one question he wants, no, needs the answer to.

“What will I be remembered for?”

               Bran looks at him for a long time.

“You don’t matter” Bran says. “You didn’t matter for long.” A pause.

“You and Cersei never did.”

Jaime steps back. He is the Kingslayer, the Oathbreaker. He has been called many names. His reputation is infamous. He has been hated and loved throughout the lands in turns, but he has never been unimportant.

He always assumed he’d be remembered for something. For Aerys. For Cersei. For

“Brienne matters”

Jaime pauses his thoughts, and turns his head slowly to face Bran. Bran’s voice is still monotone, but some hint of some emotion is present in his face. Happiness or satisfaction, Jaime cannot tell.

“Ser Brienne the Just. The Evenstar of Tarth. Brienne the Beauty. Mother of …” Bran stops his recitation. “She’ll have other titles. I don’t know which ones yet. The future isn’t clear. They’ll sing songs about her. The maesters will put her in history books. Young children will sit in rooms, and learn her tale.”

“She will be remembered” Jaime whispers. Brienne is good. Too good for Westeros. Far too kind for him. She deserves a kingdom bowing at her feet. Vaguely, he remembers thinking the last about Cersei once. Brienne wouldn’t want a kingdom or a crown. She wants to be a knight. She already is a knight, she was always a knight at heart if not in title.

Bran looks at him. 

“Brienne,” he says quietly, and there is a distinct note of quiet satisfaction on his face now, “will help build the new world. Not perfect, but better. Others will as well. All the cripples, bastards and broken things.”

“She’ll be the first female knight in Westeros, but she will not be the last. When they write the history books, they will remember her. And some of those books might contain a footnote: Knighted by Ser Jaime Lannister, in AD 305, prior to the Battle of Winterfell”

“Ser Jaime Lannister, the man who knighted Brienne of Tarth.” Bran finishes.

“She would have done great things regardless of _him._ ” The words are infused with such venom that Jaime flinches. Sansa Stark walks up from behind him to stand next to the weirwood tree.   

“That is true.” Bran acknowledges, “but distribution of titles is an important part of breaking the wheel”

Sansa smiles dismissively at Jaime and reaches for the back of Bran’s wheel chair, pushing him out of the Godswood. Another Stark to loath him. She has reason to. Cersei would kill her now, in these woods, and Bran. All alone, with no guards. _He isn’t Cersei_.

Jaime stands in the wood for a long time after they leave. He won’t be remembered by his page in the White Book. He won’t be remembered for Aerys or Cersei. Instead he’ll be remembered because of Ser Brienne of Tarth, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. It isn’t why he did it. He did it because she deserved it. More than anyone. But if that is how he is to be remembered, he can live with it.   


	2. Properly Malevolent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An evil Cersei, with diabolical plans instead of the whimpering ill-prepared mess of s8. I tried to base her monologue more off of her book POV chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm … remember that time I wrote a brief one shot and promised Brienne in the sequel? I suppose the next few chapters aren't technically a sequel … more of a prequel. I was pleasantly surprised with the response to that rambling (thank you so much to everyone who commented!), and seeing as I have thoughts I wrote up on the final season, I am attempting a fixit, to take place before and mostly after season 8. Let me know if it’s terrible and not at all what anyone wants?  
> This first upload is just altering a few bits and pieces of season 8. Chapter 6 onwards will be set after Chapter 1.

**Cersei**

_A soft-hearted fool._ The dragon queen wants the people to love her. She thinks they will. _The people._ What the people want is food to last them through the winter. Cersei understands that. Jaime (another soft-hearted fool) never did.

Has the sellsword put a bolt through his throat by now? Did he beg for mercy, plead his undying love for his queen? He should have. He should have begged on his hands and knees for the chance to stay with her. Instead he went north, to Tyrion.

The monster who killed her mother, father and son. She ought to have him captured. He could take the cell next to Ellaria Sand, if she manages to find his first wife. Maybe the mountain or Qyburn could have him.

No. This way is better, safer. The quick death neither of her brothers deserve, but will receive. Most importantly, all their knowledge will be dying with them. Knowledge of her strategies, knowledge of her weapons and knowledge of Kings Landing. Knowledge of _her_.

The armies will be a problem, but the dead have done some of that work for her. And half an army’s victories are due less to strength, than to their commanders. With Tyrion and Jaime gone, who can lead it? Ned Starks bastard would walk it off a cliff rather than tell a lie. He has all the cunning of his father, and the wits of a mollusc. Yara Greyjoy has been defeated at every turn by Euron. The Unsullied and Dothraki don’t know Westeros fighting tactics (Westerosi don’t know Dothraki tactics, but Cersei ignores this fact). The Dragon Bitch herself might attempt it. As if she could see beyond the end of her own nose. Prideful whore.

So full of pride she believes people will love her for slaughter. Cersei knows better. Knows what the people need. A few executions to keep them in line, and a tourney once a year to keep them happy.

What the smallfolk want, essentially, is for everything to stay the same. It’s remarkable what suffering they can endure, as long it is the same suffering they experienced the day before, and will experience the day after that. Their fathers shoveled shit before them, and their children can shovel shit after them.

People are fickle. Cersei knows this better than most. Robert. Jaime. Everyone who ever betrayed her. All dead now. She outlasted them all.

People will forget any care they once bore for you, the moment you make a mistake. Trying to appease people tells them you are weak, that they have power over you. Then your head is days away from hanging above Traitors Gate. When the mob comes, they don’t care if you’re trying to help them. She learnt that lesson a long time ago. The Rose Bitch didn’t last long enough to. The Dragon Bitch apparently didn’t learn that lesson in Mereen.

Fear, that’s how a true Queen rules. A queen that intends to stay queen. Show your power. _Hear me roar._  

 _Fire and Blood._ The bitch could barely manage to fulfill her house words with the aid of three dragons, and an army of fools.

Yet she made that army love her. She got the frigid King-in-the-North to kneel to her (although no doubt that was more a matter of spreading her legs and waiting). No one has ever loved Cersei. _Lyanna,_ Robert whispered on _her_ bloody wedding night. 

Maybe Jaime loved her. But what good was he? Freeing their brother, betraying her time and time again. He said he’d do anything for her, but he didn’t, did he? Stupid man, and his stupid honour.

Her mother might have loved her, if Tyrion hadn’t killed her. If only her father had drowned him the day he was born, so he might never have plagued her. _The valonquor will wrap his cold white hands around your throat …_ No! _I sent Bronn for him, I’m well rid of him by now_.

Tywin might be alive now, if Tyrion had died. He never listened, never respected her.  But if he was alive now, _he’d see_. He would know who his true heir was. Not his precious son. _Her_. He’d bartered her away, sold her to an uncaring king. But she rose above it, and now she sits on the Iron Throne. Tywin always wanted one of his children on the throne. Jaime’s lack of ambition ruined those plans twenty years ago. She knows Tywin looks down with pride upon her now.

Now she is queen. Not queen consort. Not queen regent. The _Queen._

Years she spent, hiding in the shadows, flattering the foolish egos of men. If she’d been born a man, she could have won the game years ago. If she had three dragons and an army. Three dragons, and Daenerys Targaryen uses them for flower picking. Calls them her children.

Cersei had three beautiful children once. Two of them sat where she now sits. The throne is hers, now. _Mine, and no one will take it from me. I willl burn them all before I let them take it from me._

“Your grace.” Euron approaches. “I come at your command”

Cersei glances over at him. “The dragon queen has taken her forces north. _All_ her forces.”

Euron laughs gleefully. “Has she never fought a war before?”

“She has never lost a war before. She has also never bothered to hold the land she takes before. I believe most of her victories so far have involved walking up to a city and waiting for someone to conqueror it for her. Then she leaves.”

“You want me to take back the land she gained. Your ancestral home.”

“No. I want to take her ancestral home. Sail at night, with several scorpions. Take the fortress quietly, and do not allow any ravens to be sent north. Do not strike the banners, and act as if it remains under Targaryen control. Her fleet will likely anchor there. Ignore the armies. My army can match hers. Wait for the Dragons to land, and shoot them.” She keeps her orders simple, for a simple man.

Euron bows, kisses her hand, and exits. She smiles. He is amusing, useful, and so delightfully bloodthirsty. She might consider keeping him alive, if she wanted a consort. The Throne is hers, and hers alone. _Mine_.

Qyburn enters next. Him she will keep, as she is eager to see what his inventions. If that means catering to his perversions, so be it. It is a useful way to rid herself of dissenters.

“Did you receive the men I sent you?” she asks.

“I did. Unfortunately, they were not as hardy as Ser Strong, and none were able to survive the procedure. I thought I might try women this time; they may be more resilient.”

“I will send men to collect some for you.” 

“I had a wonderful specimen in my grasp once. Almost as tall and strong as the Mountain. She would be a fantastic candidate. Alas, your brother sent her away.”

“The stupid cow? You want the Maid of Tarth. That’ll be easy enough to arrange, if we win this war. Do your work well, and you can have her.”

“The wildfire is arranged beneath Flea Bottom, as promised. Should their armies breach the walls we can detonate as, and when you please.”  

“I’ll see about Brienne of Tarth. Do send in Commander Strickland on your way out.”

Commander Strickland walks to the center of the room and bows elegantly. A man who knows his courtesies, and to show respect to his queen. Loyal to the end, provided you have paid them. _Our word is as good as gold._

“Your Grace. We have completed the task assigned to us.” He gestures, and several men enter the room. Some are dressed as Dothraki, the other as Unsullied.

“I hope you didn’t kill too many of the smallfolk” Cersei sips her wine.

“Bit o’killing. Bit o’thievery. Bit o’chopping limbs off. Bit of everything really” One of the Dothraki comments.

“The _queen_ did not ask for your opinion.” Strickland glares at the man. “By the time they left the city, a group of smallfolk had already ransacked the shop of a merchant of Pentos.”

“Has Daenerys Targaryen ever been to Pentos?”

“The smallfolk do not know the difference between the cities of Essos. They barely know the difference between the Dothraki and the Unsullied. By dawn, many citizens of Essos will be dead, or expelled from the city.”

“Good. Continue, discretely, to increase their hatred should it wane. The people ought not to welcome a foreigner into the city now.”

“I shall, your Grace. I was wondering if I might make a request.”

“You may.”

“An attempt was made on our gold last night. I was wondering if it would be possible to move it into the vaults beneath the Red Keep”

“Of course. I shall clear out one of the treasury rooms.” The treasury is all but empty, but the sellsword commander does not need to know that. “You should leave a detachment to guard it while you march north”

“How far north do you wish us to go?”

“Stop before the Riverlands; the wolves have too much support amongst the fish. Help man the castles along the Kingsroad. Their army will reach Kings Landing eventually, but slowing them gives us more time to prepare. Also, supporting the lords as they defend their castles from invaders will increase their support of the crown. Nevertheless, don’t hesitate to abandon them when the dragons arrive.”

Once they have all left, Cersei smiles in satisfaction as she drains her goblet. Her brothers are dead. The dragons soon to be dead. With them dead the dragon queen will fall. The Starks will retreat north, and when summer comes the Lannister army will march north to destroy them. _The Throne is mine_.


	3. Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The armies march south, and encounter some trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I’m not clever enough to write Tyrion, but here he is. Hopefully being less stupid than in the show. A brooding Jon who still knows nothing has some thoughts later.

**Tyrion**

It takes Tyrion far longer than he’d like to realize what is wrong. As the sail into the cove, he grows suspicious. It feels wrong. He glances around, hoping to find the source of feeling. What has his subconscious noticed that he has not?

He turns to Greyworm, advises caution. Greyworm nods, and with a gesture the Unsullied retrieve their shield from the ship rails. The captain halts the boat at the entrance to the cove.

“What is it?” Greyworm asks.

Tyrion doesn’t answer his question. “Is there another landing spot?” He inquires.

“No. The cliffs are sheer, and the Island rocky. There is nowhere else boats with this much draft may land safely.

What is wrong?” Greyworm asks again. They are all tired after spending a month aboard ship. Tired of each others company. Tyrion wants nothing more than to feel dry land beneath his feet again. Collapse into a bed in a room not filled with bunks of snoring soldiers.

“I don’t know” Tyrion responds.

Looking around, he can’t see anything. The waves lap on the beach. Dragonstone sits silent, imposing, and still. The cliffs are as stark and lifeless as they were the last time he was here.

               Behind him, he hears Greyworm give the order to move forward cautiously. Tyrion continues to study the landscape.

               Everything is peaceful. The sky and sea a cloudy grey. The wind gentle. The birds nesting in the cliffs quiet … where are the birds? He realizes suddenly. The last time they landed, a flock of birds came squabbling out to meet them.

               The worry rises abruptly. He turns sharply towards the beach. Beyond the high tide mark, there are no scratches in the sand. No reason to suspect anyone has landed. There is also no seaweed. Yet there was a storm not a week ago. It should have tossed items from the depths up onto the beach. The beach is artificially smooth, as if someone has tried to cover their tracks. They have done a poor job of it. The Greyjoys are raiders. Subterfuge on land is not something they would be particularly skilled at.

               He turns back towards Greyworm. The words trip over themselves in his hurry.

“It’s a trap. Someone has landed here recently.” He turns to the sky, searching for the dragons.

Greyworm curses in Dothraki, and turns to the Captain. The ship begins to turn, slowly, agonizingly slowly. Men scramble to put more canvas on the sails, while soldiers rush to the rail looking for any sign of the enemy.

Tyrion ignores the chaos. The dragons. Somewhere up there Daenerys is hovering, unaware of the danger. He has seen the designs for the scorpions. He has explained how best to avoid them. Fly high, out of their range. They cannot turn quickly, and they cannot fire directly upwards.

He rushes to the front of the boat, pulling off his cloak as he does so. Turning to the sky, he waves it frantically overhead, hoping the red will stand out against the blue of the water. Hoping she will see it.

He hears a low whistle, and then the first bolt flies over his head to embed itself in the mast. The point is the size of his head, with cruel black barbs around the tip. The shaft is thick as a tree trunk. It is larger than those his brother spoke of.

He continues to wave the cloak desperately. He does not want to learn what other improvements Qyburn has made to the great crossbows.

At last he sees her, breaking through the thick cloud layer, aiming to land on the clifftop. She does not see him, but the sharper eyed Drogon does, pulling up at the last instant, and flying past the grassy clifftop.

The change in direction saves the dragon’s life. The scorpion bolts fly too low, and too late. Even so, one of them pierces his tail, and another lodges itself in his leg. Drogon lets out a howl of pain before disappearing back into the clouds with Rhaegal.

As Tyrion sighs in relief, he realizes his own predicament. The other boats were further behind and had not yet struck their sails. They are already out to sea, sailing fast downwind. His own boat however, has born the brunt of the attack. Already it lists, taking water on the port side. Some of the ironborn have abandoned their clifftop nests, and spill out onto the beach, ready to deal with any survivors.

Tyrion looks back towards the main deck. Greyworm stands still amidst the chaos, directing the Unsullied to the lifeboats. He runs towards him.

“Can swim?” He pants, once he reaches Greyworm.

“Yes.”

“The lifeboats will be captured. But a lone swimmer, heading towards the cliffs, may not be seen. If you can gain the land without being captured, you can steal a boat. Make for the Stormlands, Tarth if you can. I would not trust many of its Lords, but Selwyn of Tarth would likely lend you aid.”

Greyworm nods once. “That is the last boat. You had better get on it.”

Then he turns, drops his spear and shield, and jumps off the far side of the boat, shielded from the watchers on the beach. Tyrion runs in the opposite direction, barely managing to clamber aboard the lifeboat.

As they row grimly for shore, he forces himself not to look for a head in the water, lest he give away the game.

By the time they reach the beach, the fight is over. The Ironborn have won. When Euron sees Tyrion he laughs darkly.

“She was annoyed she wouldn’t be the one to kill you. Imagine how pleased she’ll be with me when I bring her to you. Do you think she’ll make me king?”

**Jon**

               The war is not going well.

Marching through the north and the Riverlands was easy enough. The Twins fell without a whimper, the Freys being dead and the Lannisters having gone south. Edmure was freed and now serves as Lord Paramount. His eldest child with Roslin Frey will inherit Riverrun, and the second will take the Twins. 

It all fell to pieces the moment they reached the Crownlands. Daenerys landed, or rather fell from the sky with two wounded dragons. Rhaegal could barely fly; the maesters are unsure whether the holes in his wings will ever heal. In the meantime, they have sewn silk patches over the tattered holes. Drogon’s leg still weeps great tears of blood on occasion. Wine has to be boiled and poured on the wounds each night, and the dragon does not appreciate it. Drogon burnt one of the healers to death a few days ago; no northerner will assist him now.  

Greyworm’s letter from Tarth was bleak. Tyrion and Varys captured. Three ships of the fleet destroyed. The rest of the fleet is currently moored off the coast of Tarth, under siege by Euron. Their only hope now is the arrival of Yara Greyjoys fleet to break the siege. Greyworm managed to sneak through, arriving yesterday.

In hindsight, they should have known Cersei would not simply allow them to march to the gates of Kings Landing. Once they reach the Crownlands, the Golden Company begins to attack in earnest. Quick darting attacks to the rear and flanks, fleeing into the hills if a Dragon approaches. Jon often wishes the full might of the Company would just attack. But they are not stupid enough to line up in a field and wait to be burnt.

Luckily, the heavy scorpions cannot be dragged along by light raiding parties. So far, none of the castles have been equipped with them. Jon wonders where they all are, rumours of countless commissions for the carpenters of the Crownlands having reached the camps. No doubt hundreds will be mounted to the walls of King’s Landing by the time they arrive.   

That isn’t the worst of it.

With Daenerys fretting over her Dragons, her control of the remaining Dothraki is slipping. A tribe of Dothraki raided and slaughtered a village full of people a week ago. Jon tried to execute them. Daenerys stopped him. 

“Do we have so many soldiers, that we can afford to execute them? I will send them at the walls of the next castle first; that will be justice enough”

It is true, they are hemorrhaging men as they march. There are no battles, there is just a bloody slog that leaves a dozen corpses to mark each mile of ground.

That isn’t the worst of it either.

Each castle they pass on the road, they must conquer. Some lords surrender easily. Others require a bloody siege. No lord welcomes the conquerors with open arms. Neither do the smallfolk. They flee for shelter in their lord’s castles. Many die when the castle is inevitably taken. Many homes are destroyed. Worse, many crops are trampled. When winter comes, they will starve.   

They are invaders, and Jon hates the feeling. Whenever he fought before, he was defending his home. Now he conquerors others.   

Tyrion and Varys would know the land. They would know what threats to make, what flatteries to use and all the lord’s secrets. But they are not here. And despite their superior numbers, despite their two dragons, Jon feared that they might lose. Feared he might never leave this awful place behind, and return to the north, to his family, to his pack, where everything was simple and made sense.

But that still isn’t the worst part of it all.

Yesterday, after hours of futile negotiations with a particularly obnoxious nobleman (if only Tyrion was here), Daenerys climbed onto Drogon’s back.

“If you do not surrender your castle, and bend the knee to your rightful queen, I will rain fire upon you until nothing remains but ash _._ I will make the devastation of Harrenhal seem like a summer breeze. _”_

The castle surrendered instantly.

The next does not. It tries, once it begins to burn. By then, it is too late to damp the fires, although Jon does not stop trying.

After that the survivors scramble to kneel at her feet. _My Queen_ , they whisper. _Your Grace_. Allow me to present you with this gift, most wise and benevolent ruler.

She does not see the hatred the lurks behind the eyes of the orphaned children. Arya sees it, and tells him so.

“A hundred lists began this night. A hundred lists, with one name.”

Jon asks what she is doing here. She appeared suddenly out of the woods, with the hound in tow.

“We are going to kill the queen. Then, I’ll see who else needs killing.” She does not say which queen, or who else. 

  At the council meeting that night, Jon attempts to reason with his queen.

“Your Grace, I beg you. Do not burn the next castle. Do not burn Kings Landing. The people will see your kindness, and follow you as their true ruler”

“But I am not the ruler now, am I? Cersei is. Cersei gained the throne with bloody might. Cersei rules because of my kindness, because I came north to help you. And yet now you will not assist me in taking what is rightfully mine!” She pauses, and turns to face him.

“Do you wish to take the throne? Is that why you balk at committing your forces? Do you hope to keep them in reserve, until Cersei and I have battered each other to pieces, and then step in to claim the throne?

You will not succeed. The Throne will be mine. It is my birthright. I will rule the Seven Kingdoms, as my father did before me.”

Surprisingly, Missandei steps in to speak.

 “My Queen. They do not deserve you.”

“What do you mean?” She is calmer now, speaking to her old friend.

“They do not see you truly. They support a Mad Queen over you, who would rule them well and wisely. If that is what they want, let them have it. They will regret it soon enough.

Come to Nath with me, where you could live out your days in peace and harmony. Or return to the newly freed cities, where you did so much, for so many.”

For a moment, Jon thinks she may accept. Thinks he may return home. But when she speaks, her tone is steel.

“I liberated the freed cities. I shall free Kings Landing from the chains of the Tyrant. I will liberate Westeros, and only then shall I return to the Free Cities to liberate them again, if necessary. I will have the Iron Throne!”  

Missandei bows her head in acceptance. Then she stands up straight, and faces her queen. Her eyes shine with tears. “I would like to return home now, my queen.”

Daenerys frowns, and Jon worries for a moment. But then she smiles sadly, and draws her friend into an embrace. “I will put you on my fastest ship.”

Messandei turns to face Greyworm. They share a longing gaze that seems to last an eternity. “I cannot come with you now” he says. “Once the war is won.”

The tears finally spill from Messandei’s eyes. “Remember.” She says. “When this is all over, come home to me. Both of you. Remember that you are always welcome on Nath”

Then she leaves. Tall and proud. The queen watches her go, something flickering in her face. Whatever the emotion, it trickles away as her friend walks away from her, leaving a blank mask. 

When she looks at Jon again, there is no feeling in her purple eyes. She moves back towards the table, towards the map with its figurines, picking up the dragon. “Tomorrow, we shall take Stokeworth. Then Rosby. And then … Kings Landing.” She places the dragon statue on the capital.

Jon no longer fears they will lose the war. With the power of two dragons unleashed, they cannot possibly lose.

Now, he fears she will win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought the Daenerys going mad storyline could have been fascinating with more time and justification. It feels very classical game of thrones – the archetypical savoir doesn’t actually turn out to be one, and I am excited to see what GRRM does with it. I really didn’t want to fridge Missandei, and decided to have her break away from serving Daenerys instead – sorry if it feels out of character.


	4. The lady of the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa tries to smack some sense into everyone.

**Sansa**

Sansa didn’t want to go south. Sansa knows what happens to Starks and Northern armies who travel south. 

She didn’t leave with the army, she didn’t leave when news reached her of their losses, and she didn’t leave when she discovered the truth of the Dothraki ravages. She leaves when she hears of the brutalities committed by the Northern Army on the citizens of the Crownlands.

Her army, and her responsibility. What is it about war that excuses men’s atrocities? They travel fifty miles south, and now they have the right to rape, pillage and slaughter as they wish. Yet bring them home again, and they’ll settle back down with their families.

This war isn’t going to solve anything. One queen will win, one queen will lose, and the wheel will spin on, grinding the smallfolk in its great cogs.

Sansa is not traveling south to win the war. She is travelling south to stop the war, and bring the northern army home. Not for the sake of the north, but the sake of the south.

They are encamped at the Twins now, and Sansa is attempting to talk some sense into her lord uncle.

“I am the lord of Riverrun, and I say our armies must march south and remove the Lannisters from the throne.” Edmure looks like a wet fish, and he acts like one too.

“Have you any idea the sins they have committed against my house?” Edmure continues. Sansa wonders how he can be her mother’s brother.

“She knows, boy.” The blackfish interjects brusquely.  “She knows better than you. She knows what they did to her own house.”

“Fighting a war with the Lannister army is pointless” Sansa is exasperated. “Those men obey orders. Some with more eagerness than others, but how can you distinguish between them?

Marching south is nothing but foolishness. Take your mind off war, and focus on gathering crops and preserving your food supplies.”

“Do you intend to do nothing? Do you intend to let them get away with it all?” Edmure accuses.  

“Those who perpetrated the murders of my family will die. Most already have. Have you forgotten the Freys? Have you forgotten my former husbands? Do you know what I did to the last one?

I will deal with Cersei, or Daenerys. Whoever wins. The Seven knows you can’t manage it.”

As Edmure splutters in fury, Sansa addresses the Blackfish. “I suggest you assume the position of Lord of the Riverlands.”

“My lady, I am not the rightful heir.”

Sansa looks over at that heir. “I would rather the man who rallied a broken army to retake his home, then the one who let the lions take it after a few threats. His decision almost resulted in your death. Besides, he can be your heir, and perhaps a few more years of learning will turn him into a competent leader. If it doesn’t, perhaps his son will be.”

“He threatened my child. My baby boy. The Kingslayer said he’d fling him over the walls with a trebuchet.” Edmure bursts out.

At his words, Brienne twitches slightly, armour clanking. She looks almost as if she wants to object, but she does not, face settling back into the blank mask she wears so well. 

Sansa had almost forgotten her lady knight was present. She worries often for Brienne these days. Brienne was always reserved, but she used to care so much. Her feelings would be written across her face, and she would fight with such passion. 

Ever since Brienne woke her to inform her that Jaime Lannister had fled in the night, eyes rimmed red, she has not shown a single emotion. Her face is a wall. As blank as the pommel of the new sword she now carries. She has not removed her armour in anyone’s presence since that night.

Sansa does not attempt to defend the Kingslayer to Edmure. She didn’t particularly care about the middle Lannister before. Now, she will gladly see him executed next to Cersei. 

The blackfish nods, sighs in resignation at Edmure’s petulance. “I accept the position.”

“Thank you, Uncle. Brienne, will you please escort Lord Edmure to his rooms.”

Edmure is shocked enough that he allows Brienne to lead him out of the room. As the door closes behind her, the blackfish speaks “You do not trust her?”

“I trust Brienne to defend me with her life. I fear that is how she wishes to die.” Sansa smiles sadly.

“You sent her away.”

“Brienne cannot lie, and my next plan requires subterfuge. Besides, if Jaime Lannister worms his way back into the good graces of the crown, and Cersei wins, she will be our most important negotiating tool. I wish to spare her feelings, as we discuss this.”

               “Hm. Do you think she will refuse to fight Jaime Lannister?”

               “No. But he will not fight her.”

               “If only I’d known that at Riverrun. What is your plan?”

\-------------------------

The sellsword appears shocked at his imprisonment. It is almost as if he thought no one would notice a lone man riding north with an ornate crossbow, while everyone else fled south. As if Sansa doesn’t receive daily ravens from White Harbour and the Neck, watching who enters her kingdom. As if she hasn’t maintained Littlefinger’s network.

They underestimate her. Sansa smiles. She hopes Cersei still sees the foolish little girl who wanted to marry the prince. It will make outwitting her all the easier. Cersei never was as clever as she believed herself to be.

“Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. Still serving the Lannisters. Tell me, when was the last time they kept a promise to you?”

“Are you going to suggest I join up with the Starks now? That you’ve got more honor or more to offer?”

“I do have more to offer you. Your life, to start.”

Bronn glances around his cell and chuckles darkly. “Never trust a Lannister. I should know that by now. What would you like me to do?”

\--------------------

**Daenerys**

The first raven’s message is simple; “Yara Greyjoy has broken the siege of Tarth. Her fleet will rejoin battle with Euron Greyjoy in Blackwater Bay whenever the queen commands”

The second raven’s message is also simple, but decidedly more troublesome; “Enter Kings Landing, and I will kill your Lady.” Attached is a lock of red hair. It signed “Ser Bronn of the Blackwater.”

               Some do not believe it. Not until the Lady Brienne arrives, grief-stricken and demanding they negotiate with Cersei for the return of her Lady. Her tears, and the Blackfish’s rage are enough to convince all doubters.

               As the Northern commanders deliberate whether to attack or not, the Blackfish brings a select few aside to explain the truth – or as much of the truth as Sansa cares to give them. It is decided then. The North will wait to attack.

               Daenerys will not. Despite Brienne’s pleading, despite Jon’s counsel. The Dothraki are decimated, but the Unsullied hold strong, and she has two dragons. She will not lose. Kings Landing will learn what it is to defy a dragon. The seven kingdoms will learn what it means to go against her.

               It will be a lesson for the annals of history. The battle to end all battles, to end the war to end all wars. Once it is done, they will all bend the knee and she shall rule in peace and harmony.  


	5. The bells are ringing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war has finally reached King's Landing. Will anyone win?

**Jaime**

Somewhere over the horizon, dragons circle and armies line up on the field. Inside the city, it is chaos. The Red Keep has closed its doors, with the Gold Cloaks and the Lannister Army inside. Thieves and looters rule the city now. In a few hours, an invading army might sack it.

Jaime heads for the tunnels beneath the city. As he runs down the winding paths towards the keep, time seems to blur until he is seventeen again, his white cloak not yet stained in blood. Following Aerys until the flickering light of the candle makes way for the green glow of wildfire.

That distinctive green glow seems to surround him now, and he realizes it is more than a memory. Wildfire is stacked along the walls of this tunnel. New wildfire. If the dragons attack the city … it is a powder keg, waiting to explode.

He runs faster now. Faster, and faster, until he feels like his heart will explode. _Convince Cersei to surrender. Save the city._

He repeats his mantra as he climbs each flight of stairs, the words propelling his tired muscles to move. After being forced to sit out all the battles locked indoors, Cersei will want to watch this one from above, in the fresh air.

He passes through a courtyard, sees two giants in armour battling. The hound and the mountain. He almost wishes he could watch, but with the Mountain here, Cersei must be nearby. He continues to the viewing room. The guard at the door allows him to pass without protest.

Then, he sees her. She seems smaller now. Delicate, fragile, and oh so terribly beautiful.

“Cersei” he whispers it quietly, but somehow she hears him. When she turns to look at him, he freezes.

Her eyes. Green they glimmer, green like wildfire, with a madness he has seen once before. As she approaches, the sunlight casts her shadow looming over him. How could he have thought her small? She is strong. Defiant. Magnificent. Mad.

“Have you come to join the winning side?” She asks mockingly.

“You believe you will win?” Is all he can manage in return.

She laughs at that, long and hard. “Right now, the Golden Company and the Northern Army are destroying each other. The Greyjoys are doing the same. When they are all dead, their gold will be where they left it. Stored with me for safekeeping under the Red Keep or at Casterly Rock. Then Lannister Army, most of which is safely waiting in the Westerlands, will be the only army left, armed and powerful.”

“What if the Northerners capture you?” He needs to convince her to surrender. The bells must be rung. Innocent lives are at stake.

“I found it, you know. It was hidden well. You should have told me its location.”

There is a horrible feeling rising from the pit of Jaime’s stomach. “Wildfire” he whispers.

“Buried beneath the road. As the winning army marches along, I shall wipe them out.” She smiles gleefully.

He swallows hard. He thought he might be here to prevent Queen Daenerys from burning the city. It appears he was wrong about which queen. There is one flaw in her strategy, and he can’t seem to stop himself from asking, as much as it plays into her twisted little game. “What about the dragons?”

 “The dragons are wounded. Already they fall from the sky.” As if her words are prophesy, behind her the black dragon appears in the window frame, its belly prickled like a porcupine with arrows, falling fast towards the city. The green one follows, attempting to help it. Its wings are too raggedy to do any good. Scorpion bolts chase them across the sky. Out of the hundred, few scorpions remain; will they be enough to bring the creatures down?

“To think, she might have won, had she been willing to burn the city.” Cersei laughs again.

 _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The word cannot begin to encompass all of his decisions._ How can he fix this? Cersei will not surrender. Daenerys will not cease her attack. _The stupidest Lannister._ Tyrion would know. Tyrion could fix this. He’d think of some clever plan.

Cersei looks behind him. “You’re here.” 

Euron Greyjoy walks into the room, covered in seawater and soot. Tyrion is dragged behind him in chains, a heavy collar around his neck. “Can I kill them? The man who slew the Kingslayer and the Imp. It doesn’t have much of a ring to it, does it?”

Cersei looks at Jaime. He can feel the weight of their history in her gaze. Forty years. Two halves of the same soul. He would like to think that she is deliberating, that she will not kill her brother, her one true love. He cannot delude himself. He has always known her. In that instant, he realizes that she will do it. _She never loved him_. No. She loved power more than him.

“You were with _her_ weren’t you?” She says. “Was it lack of options, or did you just need protection from the Starks?” She looks at Tyrion, who mouths _sorry_. 

“Kill him.” She says, and Euron grins.

There is no grace to their fight, no leaps in their movements. Neither has the energy. They clash furiously, and both are gasping when they part. Euron lunges forward, and Jaime trips backwards over a footstool. He hears his ribs crack, and barely avoids the point of Eurons sword. He bashes the sword from Euron’s right hand as the man kneels on top of him, losing his own sword in the process.

He feels the dagger drive deep into his side as Euron laughs manically, waving his left hand. “Two hands Kingslayer! They come in handy when … “

Jaime’s golden hand catches him across the chin, and he falls back. Jaime grabs his sword again, and plunges it deep into Euron’s throat, blood spraying across the carpet. He staggers to his feet and looks at Cersei.

“Very well, you’ve proven yourself. You may have a place at my side once again.” The audacity of her statement shocks him. Does she really think I will go back to her now? _I suppose I always have, no matter what atrocities she or I committed._

All he can manage to gasp out is; “You must surrender. It’s over.”

“No.” Cersei raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think it is. I think I’ve won” She gestures outside, where the black dragon lies spread across the rooftops. He can’t see the Dragon Queen, but she must be there.

“No! NO! This cannot happen. I will not let it!” He slashes his sword furiously, and Cersei jumps back.

“Jaime.” The voice is hoarse but calm.

“Tyrion.” He says desperately, hoping beyond hope that his brother has a plan. _The smartest Lannister._

“You don’t need Cersei to surrender.” Tyrion says evenly.

“Yes I do, of course I do! How else can we end this battle before the city burns? Who else can order the bells rung?” Jaime rages. His entire life’s work, the one thing he managed to do right is about to be swept away. His brother is supposed to be _clever_ , his brother is supposed to have a _plan_ ...

“ _You can_. You are the eldest male heir of House Lannister. This army has been taking orders from you since you could walk. Order them to stand down, and they will do it. Without hesitation.”

Jaime hesitates a moment as he processes this, then runs to the door, and finds the first guard he sees. “Ring the bells!” Jaime screams. He must look like a madman, but the man looks as if he is his savoir.

“Orders from my lord. Ring the bells!” He cries. Along the hall the next guardsmen takes up the cry, and the next, and the next.

If only he’d taken power sooner, he might have stopped this war entirely. If he’d realized some of his army would listen to him over Cersei, he might have brought them north with him. If he’d realized they don’t actually want to fight dragons, or listen to a mad queen.

Cersei. What can he do with her? Bargain for her life? Surely they will not execute a pregnant women. Her belly. It was flat. She would be showing by now. And she was drinking wine.

When he re-enters the room, Tyrion has unchained himself. Jaime takes the chains from him and walks to Cersei, who is now yelling for her guards. “Was there ever a child?” he asks.

Cersei looks bitter. “You were going to leave.” She sounds plaintive. It sounds like an act.

As he chains her, he cannot look at her. “We are going to surrender. I will try and negotiate for you to be held prisoner instead of executed.”

“I’d rather they kill me.” Cersei says. “And they will kill us. You can’t possibly believe we will be allowed to live?”

“She is correct.” Tyrion says. “There is still time to flee.” He cannot believe his siblings are agreeing on something.

“I won't run away. I will face justice.” Jaime says firmly. “And so will you.” 

As they walk through the halls bells echo throughout the keep. Jaime is glad to hear them, but it feels as if they are tolling for a funeral. His funeral.

When he walks into the lower courtyard to meet his fate, he gasps. The city is on fire. The Dragon Queen is burning it. Green wildfire blooms from the streets, mingling with the orange fire on the rooftops. He can’t speak, can’t move.

It is his worst nightmare come true.     

Dimly he hears Tyrion say they must have killed Drogon. He cannot focus on that. His vision blurs. He stares into the fire until it is his world. He doesn’t notice the dragon land until its rider stops in front of him. He sees platinum blonde hair and Aerys eyes.

He hears Tyrion’s pleas, and the rage of the two queens. He registers the dragon queen’s words, _You killed my child. I will enjoy watching you die._

 _Send for your executioner then._ Cersei responds defiantly.

The answering smile from Daenerys would terrify him, if he weren’t already numb. _Yes, send for the executioner already, and let me be free of this world._ Blood is pouring from his side, and he realizes he is about to faint.

One of the last things he sees before he falls backwards down the stairs is Rhaegal’s approach. The little dragon lives, but his big brother died. Jaime hopes his little brother will live too.

Then the dragon’s pale white fangs clench around Cersei’s throat and all of a sudden her head has vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dramatic death Cersei might have wanted.
> 
> Sorry to the Daenerys fans if her actions didn't feel justified or in character.
> 
>  
> 
> This is the end of the "prequel" section; time-wise the next bit will pick up after chapter 1.


	6. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When someone calls her pretty, she knows them to be a liar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: A fair amount of self-loathing.

**Brienne**

Brienne keeps a collection of memories in the cellars of her brain. The very worst of them. The humiliating, the miserable, and the failures. All of them seared into her from the day they happened.

_The day she realized she was ugly. She was seven, and a boy had just called her a freak. When she’d come crying to her Septa, the woman had sat her in front of a mirror and told her to find the truth in it. She’d found it, and she’d known. She was ugly._

_The day she realized no man would marry her. She can’t remember Ronnet Connington’s face, but she can remember the Rose hitting the ground so softly after he threw it at her face. It ought to have smashed violently, but instead it fluttered to the ground. She has hated Roses ever since._

_The day she realized no man would love her. So many men had lined the walls of the ballroom. Yet no one would dance with her, until Renly. As they danced, she’d looked into his eyes and thought herself in love. She knew he would never love her back. When the others came to dance with her after, she’d looked into their eyes too, and knew they would never love her either. Most couldn’t even look up to meet her gaze._

_The day she realized no man would want her. He was sixty years old, older than her father. He wanted Tarth, and he wanted her quiet. Breaking his bones was one of her most satisfying moments, almost as satisfying as not having to marry him. But she’d learned that Tarth was the only reason anyone might want her._

_The day she realized no man would accept her. This was one of the worst, because she had believed for a moment that they might be sincere. That she had been accepted by Renly’s host. Then it all came crashing down, when she found out about the bet on her maidenhead. She hasn’t trusted anyone the same way since._

_The day Renly died, and she felt the great crushing failure, like she couldn’t breathe. Like nothing in the world would ever be right again. She’d thought nothing could be worse, until all her other failures …_

_The day news came that Catelyn died. The day she lost Arya. The day Sansa rejected her._

Every so often, she takes one out, and plays it. Over and over again, until she remembers. Until she learns her lesson.

They are her resistance, her last line of defense. When she hears the whispers, the mocking taunts, the japes at her choices and her appearance, she tries to be immune to them. She tells herself she has heard them all before, she plays them in her head at night.

 _Words are wind, and they cannot hurt you._ But they did hurt her. They do hurt her. They always hurt so much.

She isn’t immune to their insults. Over time, she has managed to develop a resistance. It isn’t much of a resistance. It still hurts. But at least it doesn’t show. The blank face, the polite expression while she waits for the laughter to stop – that she has mastered.

Nevertheless, each name goes into the cellar, properly stored. As if cataloguing all the names will stop the hurt. Besides, men always come up with new ones.

               Before, they insulted her virginity. The Maid of Tarth, they mocked. Now that no longer applies, they have switched to calling her a whore.

Overtime, she has woven her memories into the fabric of her armour. When someone smiles at her, she remembers all the times she thought false smiles sincere. When someone is kind to her, she wonders what they want. When someone calls her pretty, she knows them to be a liar.

She always expects the worst.

It makes it very difficult to trust anyone. Not for weeks, not for months, sometimes not even for years. Mostly, she is glad of her mistrust. It keeps her safe, because she knows what happens if she forgets. Because sometimes she does.

Sometimes she slips. Sometimes she forgets. Then she has a new memory to add to the list.

_Her bed cold. The creak of a door closing. Pulling on a robe and racing down to the courtyard, only to find him saddling a horse. Then he left for his sister, but not before telling her what fool she was to care for him in the first place._

How she feels about Jaime wavers depending on her mood. It dictates how much she believes he may have cared about her.

Sometimes, she thinks she was nothing more than a warm body. That he used her. First for protection from the Starks, then for his own pleasure. After she had secured his pardon, and gotten him leave to stay in Winterfell, he waited until the time was ripe to escape back to Cersei.

Mostly, she rejects this theory. The part of her that believes in his honour is too strong. Hence, she must have been a drunken mistake, and he’d been trying to preserve her honour by staying. _As he always has. His hand. The bearpit. Oathkeeper._

She wonders how he managed to feign affection for her during those weeks. After the first night, she had seen a flash of regret in his eyes the next morning. But he’d pulled her into an embrace, and returned the next night.

If she is feeling particularly charitable towards herself, she’ll believe that he really did care for her, but that his sister’s hold was too strong. After all, she was his sister. He loves her. He merely had some friendship with Brienne, if that.

She is angry at him, and sad, but mostly she is angry with herself for being fooled again. She thought she’d learnt her lesson.

What she really hates herself for is pleading with him to stay. Giving in to that weakness, when she should have known that he would leave.

It will not happen again, that she has resolved upon. She is rebuilding her walls, taller and stronger than before. She will be the best knight she can be, protect Sansa, Arya and Podrick as best she can. She will do her duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure what to do about Daenerys. Kill her, or send her to Essos? 
> 
> Next chapter should finally be a Brienne-Jaime interaction.


	7. Conversations in Courtyards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, they talk! 
> 
> It doesn't end well.

**Jaime**

In the end, Jaime breaks first. More accurately, Tyrion breaks.

“How is she doing?” He asks, as he does every day. On this particular one, Tyrion has had enough.

“You are aware you can speak with her yourself!” Tyrion exclaims, slamming his books down on the desk. Tyrion glares at his brother, sprawled on the bed. Jaime leaves the room once each day for a long walk around the Keep. He takes great care to avoid Brienne on these walks. It required memorizing her schedule, which is difficult, especially when it changes, but he has managed it.

“She does not want to speak with me. She does not care to see me.”

“You do not know that, as you haven’t spoken with her.”

“She did not come to see me while I was recovering.”

“Yet she asked me for a report on your condition the day she arrived.” Tyrion pauses. “She also asked the maester. And requested the cooks to cut your food into small pieces for you before it arrived in your chambers. No doubt there were other acts of kindness and concern I did not witness.”

He did appreciate, and wonder why the food began arriving cut. He’d thought Tyrion was responsible. _Perhaps she does not hate me. Perhaps she isn’t angry._ He chuckles to himself. _Of course she is furious. But perhaps her anger might fade? If he talks with her. Apologizes, explains himself._

There is hope blooming in his chest now, and he is angry with himself for feeling it. For acting as if he is deserving of her. He wants her, could that be enough?

“Are you a coward?” Tyrion wants him out of the room. “Too craven to go talk with a woman?”

He waits in the door of the training yard for some time. Simply watching. She is magnificent, as she swings her blade. Lighter on her feet than anyone who has seen her walk would believe. He wonders what dancing with her would be like, hopes fervently that he might one day get the chance to share a dance with her. They should have danced in Winterfell, while he had the chance.

He approaches when everyone has left, and she is putting the weapons away. He grabs a sword from the rack. “Might I have this dance, my lady?”

**Brienne**

She freezes at the sound of his voice. Her breath stops, and she forces herself to exhale. _In and out. In and out. Calm. Composed. Never let them see your tears. Never let him see them again._

The strategy fails almost instantly when she inhales a breath of dust from the sand of training yard and coughs madly. She doubles over, trying to expel the dirt from her throat. He moves closer, stump outstretched to pat her on the back. _No!_ She does not know what she will do if he touches her, but knows she cannot allow it. She jumps back, and he flinches, bringing his arm to his side. She brings herself upright. After all her hard work at controlling her tears, her eyes are watery from the coughing.

“Ser Jaime. Have you come here to speak to one of the knights?” She is proud when her voice does not crack. It is higher than usual, but sounds better than she thought it might.

“I have, in fact.” He smiles tentatively, and Brienne adopts her stoniest expression to ward against it.

“What do we have to speak of?”

“Quite a lot. For one thing, I would like to explain my actions … “

She cuts him off as quickly as she can. “Do not feel the need to offer an explanation.” She does not want him to hear him confess his feelings for his sister. Once was quite enough. She does her best to smile reassuringly. It looks like a grimace. “I understand why you left.”

“You do?” He sounds surprised.

“She was your family, and you loved her. Why would you stay with me, while she lived? I appreciate your attempts to preserve my honour by staying at Winterfell. But I know who the most important people in your life are. Please do not feel any obligation towards me.” There. She has spoken her piece. He can leave now, free of her.  

He seems to be processing her words. His gaze drops to the sword at her side, “What is that garbage are you wearing?” His tone is accusatory.

Of course. He would not come here merely to speak with her. Glad that his true purpose has been revealed, she goes to retrieve Oathkeeper from the bench. Normally, now, it remains in her room while she wears a serviceable sword of ordinary steel the smith at Winterfell made for her, but she brought it today to show the squires what Valeyrian steel looks like. It is fortunate that she did.  

“I am afraid that I returned Widows Wail to Sansa, and she has had it reforged in the North. But she said Oathkeeper was mine, and thus I can return it to you.” She blinks. _Don’t cry. Not one tear. Swallow the lump in your throat._ “I would ask only that you not change the name. If you wish, it can stand for your loyalty to your family, and keeping your oath to protect your queen.”

He seems not to notice when she shoves the sword into his arms, grabbing it only out of reflex. She turns to go, so desperate to leave before the tears spill that she forgets the spears have not be been tidied yet. She gets halfway across the courtyard before she hears running footsteps, and he yells at her to wait.

“What is it?” She says dully.

“Brienne will you just listen to me for half a second!” He shouts. He breaths in sharply, as if trying to calm himself. “Yes, I loved Cersei, and yes, I believed she was pregnant with my child, but let me apologize, or at least finish a sentence”

She does not allow him to finish. He was with her, while he’d been with his sister recently enough for her to be pregnant by him. The tears threaten to grow. She forces words through her suddenly constricting throat. “You allowed yourself to be with me when all along you loved her, planned on raising a family with her.” She is shocked by how cold she has managed to make her tone. “If you don’t mind, _Ser_ , I will be leaving now.”

Then she walks away as quickly as she can, before she is sobbing in a courtyard again. She’d prefer to cry in the quiet of her own room.

Pod finds her, as he did before. At least she has stopped crying this time. He gives her a hug, until she exhales shakily and thanks him for taking care of her. Then he leaves.

\------------------------------------

 **Tyrion**  

Tyrion knows something has happened when he finds his brother curled up in bed around a sword, face wet with tears. He knows it was probably his brother’s fault, but he cannot help feeling protective. He goes speak with Brienne, in the hope he can solve this mess, and runs into Pod.

               Pod has a look on his face that Tyrion does not recognize. After all, it’s Pod. Pod is always cheerful. Pod is never angry. He almost looks murderous. Tyrion attempts to soften him “Pod! Might I speak with you Lady Knight.”

               “She isn’t receiving visitors right now.” Somehow, Pod makes _visitors_ sound like _Lannisters_.

               “I will be gentle, I promise. I just want to sort out all this trouble. I would like for my brother to be happy. Do you not want the same for her?”

               “I fear those may be conflicting goals at the moment.”  


	8. A Loyal Squire

**Pod**

Pod isn’t sure he can hit a knight, but he’s damn well going to try. He also isn’t sure he’s allowed to hit a lord, but he’ll deal with the punishment that comes later. And hitting a one armed man seems a bit unfair, but Pod is angry enough not to care.   

Pod is going to smack Jaime Lannister’s pretty face into the dirt until it’s a bit less pretty. He even asked Bronn to teach him a few dirty tricks. Pod is ready. He’s got two tourney swords (of course he’s giving ~~Ser Jaime~~ the Kingslayer a sword, his Lady Knight would be very upset if he didn’t given his opponent a fair chance). He knows where and when the Kingslayer goes for his daily walks.

The only problem is the guards. They think he wants to help the prisoner escape. He tried to explain that his intentions are in fact the exact opposite, and ending up waving one of the tourney swords in their faces during his pantomime. That did not end well.

He ended up running away, but he’s back now, and he has backup. Backup which currently consists of one small dark haired girl. _Who killed the night king._

Arya Stark moves, and the guards drop to the ground unconscious.

He walks forward as confidently as he can, and does his best not to hunch down under the astonished and yet still withering Lannister gaze.

“Podrick Payne.” Jaime observes. “Is this a rescue attempt? Not that I’m not grateful of course, but I fail to see how you can manage to get me out of this situation.”

Pod ignores his cavalier attitude. He suspects it hides pain, but reminds himself that he very much does not care.  He tosses one of the swords to Jaime. Jaime fumbles the catch, remembering too late to reach with his left instead of his right.

Podrick attempts his best sneer. “Pick up your sword, Ser.”

He really isn’t very good at sneering. He’s never practiced. He also isn’t very good at hating people, or staying angry at them. But he has been practicing that.

Realization seems to be dawning on Jaime. He doesn’t quite seem to get it yet, but he’s starting to. He picks up the sword slowly. Pod sighs in relief. That’s good, at least. Podrick can’t hit an unarmed man. 

The next issue is how he beats a one-handed knight, who was once the best sword hand in the Seven Kingdoms, who Podrick and a hundred other squires grew up idolizing.

The answer is, as it turns out, very easily. It might be because Pod has spent the past couple years training with arguably one of the current best sword hands in the Seven Kingdoms. It might be Bronn’s help. Mostly though, it’s because one of them wants to win, and the other doesn’t.

The first few swipes are a mere testing of strength, before Pod strikes a decisive blow downwards, pinning Jaime’s sword beneath his own, and following with his other fist to the face. Bronn’s brass knuckles are very effective at breaking noses.

“Get up” Pod says, trying to sound threatening instead of terrified.

Jaime does, and Podrick beats him down again. After the third time, Podrick does not tell him to rise again. 

Jaime looks so small against the sand. Weary and resigned, a far cry from the golden knight. Podrick tries to recall the anger of moments ago, but cannot. He wonders if Brienne would approve of what he has done. He worries she might not. Is it not honourable, to hurt those who hurt your friends? Isn’t it? In the songs, the bold squire defending the lady is always honourable.

At least his point has been made. To both Lannister brothers now; he told Tyrion yesterday. They ought to know which side he stands on.

“You make her cry again, I’ll hurt you.”

Is that threatening enough? Jaime doesn’t look threatened, he looks miserable. About as miserable as Pod. Pod just wants a drink while Tyrion explains this to him, but he can't drink with Tyrion anymore. Pod moves to help Ser Jaime up, and realizes that is a stupid idea. He wonders what one does now, and settles for walking away sadly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried very hard to make very Pod-friendly, because Pod is the best. 
> 
> That ... went interestingly. Obviously Pod is going to defend Brienne, and Westeros is a world where violence is very much an acceptable course of action. I also thought Jaime needed to be punched in the face at some point, and didn't want Brienne to do it because she isn't really in that headspace now, and Jaime used to let Cersei hit him. 
> 
> So I ended up with this. 
> 
> Let me know if you hate it in the comments.


	9. Councils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some politics to get through

**Sansa**

Sansa has called a council, and none of the stubborn fools want to broach the topic they have all come here to discuss. Bronn and Tyrion are discussing reinstating brothels. Jon is brooding. Arya is sharpening her knives while Gendry watches her. Sam is reading. Brienne, as ever, is silent.

               “Enough chatter. What are we going to do about the current queen?” Sansa asks.

               “What can we do?” Tyrion asks despairingly. Since the fire, he has taken to drinking again. “She has the throne now, which is what she wanted. Perhaps if we give her time, she will settle down. Remember all she did for the people of Astapoor, Yunkai and Mereen, when they accepted her as ruler.”

               “Are you, by any chance, referring to the former slave cities, which are currently war zones? The ones she barely visited, and abandoned in favour of future conquest. Perhaps we should send her to Braavos – it would solve our troubles with the Iron Bank and rid us of our conqueror in one fell swoop.” Sansa’s tone is caustic.

               “You are being unfair to her. She did her best to eliminate a long established system – that is not an easy thing to do. She genuinely cared about the people living there.” Tyrion argues passionately.

               “Try telling that to the people of King’s Landing.” Arya interjects.

               “It was war, they were murdering her child! Perhaps if the Northern Army had fought in the battle, it would not have happened”

               “If the Northern army had fought in the battle, we wouldn’t have an army right now, and the city would still have been brutally sacked.” Sansa will not apologize for trying to avoid a battle.  “Besides, the war is over and still she murders. The killings have not stopped Tyrion, or have you forgotten Varys?” Sansa’s tone is gentler now. Varys was Tyrion’s friend. He forgot about a Dragon’s advanced olfactory senses when trying to poison its food, and paid for his mistake. Tyrion grieves for his friend, but cannot seem to cope with the fact that he may have been wrong to support Daenerys.

               “She thinks if she just kills enough people, the remainder will love her.” Arya adds.

               “She kills enough people, that’ll be true. Of course, there won’t be many people left, but she’s got a dragon.” Bronn comments.

               “The dragon must be dealt with first. Can the northern army defeat it in the field?” The mention of Varys death seems to have inspired something in Tyrion. A desire for vengeance, or a realization of how far gone his queen is.

               “Don’t forget the Lannister army. They might help us fight.” The hopeful remark comes from Gendry. Sansa isn’t sure why he was allowed to attend. The sellsword at least offers some practical advice, vulgar as it is. She has almost grown fond of hearing his plain speaking, in her days spent as his “hostage”.

               “The Lannister army might also decide to fight us.” Sansa replies.

               Bronn snorts. “You don’t fight fookin dragons in a fookin field. Long distance, that’s the only way to do it.”

               “We don’t have time to debate this. Every day she executes more and more people!” The shout comes from the most mild mannered of sources. “She killed my family first.” Sam speaks now.

“I could understand the execution of my father, even after surrender. The method of execution, and my brother’s death – that was not necessary. And now she is burning this kingdom alive. She has to be stopped, before more families are torn apart.”

Sam is silent now. His usual nervous smile is absent from his face. He looks older, and less happy. Less like Sam.

In the wake of his silence, Jon stands. He looks at his oldest friend sadly. “I will do it. I am the only one who can get close enough.”

Arya raises an eyebrow. “Aye, I know. But there are tens of guards surrounding her, and the Unsullied have training in spotting assassins – even Faceless men. She will allow me to speak with her” Jon says.

“You will rule then, once she is gone.” Sansa states.

“No. No I will not rule! Not again.” Jon’s vehemence is startling.

“Do you know that when I was a boy I dreamed of being Lord of Winterfell? Impossible for a bastard of course. The only way I would rule, would be if every other man in my family was dead. So, I went to the Night’s Watch where even bastards could lead. And I did. I was the commander of the Night’s Watch, protecting the realm against wildings. Except it took the death of the woman I loved before that to happened. The deaths of thousands of Free Folk, whom I had come to respect.

I wasn’t even very good at commanding. My own men stabbed me in the night. Do you think they had a council just like this before they did it? Discussing all the reasons I must die?” There are tears in Jon’s eyes now. “Do you think they wept too?

Then I became King in the North. But only because Lord Stark, Robb and Rickon were all dead. All I ever dreamed of, and all my worst nightmares come true. I will not accept another throne, if I receive it for killing the woman I love.

I said I did not want power, and yet I took it anyway. This time, I will not. I will do the deed for the good of the realm, and return north to live out the remainder of my days with the Free Folk.”  

Jon gets up and walks out.

In the silence that remains, Sam looks heartbroken for him.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Sansa is never told who killed Daenerys, but she can guess. It isn’t difficult.

The next day Daenerys is ill, and summons a maester to treat her. After he leaves, she is found the next morning with a dragonglass dagger through her chest.

When this news arrives, Sam tells Jon simply “I did it for my brother, all the other brothers, and mostly to spare you” Jon looks some combination of furious, grieving and relieved.

Sansa is furious. “What are we supposed to do with a wild Dragon? Did either of you bother to make a plan for what comes next?”

Greyworm is also furious. Greyworm rants and rages and threatens. He throws his spear into the wall as hard as he can, until the tip breaks. Then he beats the wall until his knuckles are bloody. Finally, he stops his demands to know who killed his queen, and simply weeps.

Sansa tells him, gently, “We will have a funeral for the woman she was. A pyre, for a dragon.” She gives him a moment before adding “First, we must quell the riots in the streets.”

Greyworm glares. “They never deserved her.” He says viciously. “Do as you will. I am leaving this strange land, and its cruel people. I will attempt to bring order to the Free Cities, and uphold her legacy. Ensure no one else dies in chains. The Unsullied and Dothraki will be given the choice to come with me.”

Most of the Unsullied leave. Most of the Dothraki choose to not cross the poison sea again. The riots are quelled by Ser Bronn eventually, who is awarded Stokeworth and the role of Master of War as a result. Sansa calls another council to decide the next ruler.

The dragon is tamed by Jon, who manages to send it over the sea. Bran says it is going to Valyria. Sansa shivers in relief.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

The day of the next council dawns bright and clear. Sansa gets straight to the point.

“We need a new leader. We need someone to run the kingdom.”

That causes instant chaos. Everyone begins to yell. Edmure says that he has the best claim, while his uncle rolls his eyes. The lords of the Westerlands (and some of the Reach) argue that Jaime Lannister, who arrived in chains, is the rightful heir as his sister previously held the throne. The Greyjoys and Dorne shout for independence.

“Quiet!” The yell comes from Tyrion.

“This,” he says firmly. “Is not how Kings and Queens should be chosen. Bloodlines are foolish ways to choose a leader. How can we guarantee that their children will be good rulers? Look at the Targaryens. Moreover, this system allows relatives of any previous ruler to make a claim for the throne, embroiling us in war after war. The Baratheons win. The Lannisters win. The Targaryens win. Nothing changes except a whole lot of men are no longer alive. What if we change the system?”

Sam looks excited “Are you suggesting we elect a new leader after the old one dies? Each person in the kingdom gets a choice?”

“Each Lord Paramount gets a vote” Tyrion says simply. “I don’t believe giving every man and woman a vote is possible yet.”

Bran speaks then. “It will be someday.”

“That will be a great day.” Is all Tyrion can say.

The voices of dissent are loud. It is Jaime Lannister, of all people, who quiets them.

“I have seen and served four mad rulers now. Some went mad, others were always mad. I have also seen two bad rulers. Not cruel, but not very good at governing. I agree with Tyrion. The system needs to change.” That quiets many of the Lords.

“What about our independence?” Yara’s strong voice rings out.

Sansa stands. She has thought about this ever since Tyrion proposed the plan to her. “When the White Walkers came, we stood united against the dead. Why should we separate now? We are stronger together than apart. Back when there were Seven Kingdoms, they would war against each other constantly. Besides, with this system in place, as Lady of the Iron Islands, you will still get a say in who rules the Seven Kingdoms. You will have some independence. I am willing to commit the North to this plan.”

Eventually they negotiate an agreement, involving who is permitted to vote, who will serve on the small council. Then it is time to elect the new ruler.

No one seems to want to go first. Then Brienne seems to summon all her courage, and stands up, nearly knocking her chair over. With her height, she towers over everyone, and she blushes as they all turn to stare. She does not let the attention stop her. She mumbles something quietly and then repeats it loudly “I vote for Lady Sansa.”

Brienne looks as if she wants to say more, but her loathing of public speaking wins out, and she sits heavily. Sansa has only ever heard her voice an argument in front of an audience before, and feels touched that Brienne would do this for her.

The last person Brienne vouched for stands now, and casts his vote for Sansa. Jaime also recommends his brother for Hand.

In the end, it is nearly unanimous. Yara Greyjoy and Arianne Martell vote for Sansa with furious expressions that promise trouble if she does not rule fairly. The Blackfish votes for Edmure and himself. A couple of northern lords vote for Jon, who looks briefly uncomfortable. Some of the southern lords, abstain from voting, and some vote for themselves.

In the end it is settled. Sansa will be queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully all the politics didn’t scare anyone away. The agreement they came to is supposed to be a little like the magna carta, with some declaration of independence vibes. 
> 
> They aren’t exactly breaking the wheel yet, but I feel like it's some sort of progress?


	10. Hurtful Words

**Brienne**

He is attempting to talk with her again. “Lady Brienne,” he says. “You spoke well during the council today.”

She could barely get through a sentence. At least her tongue is working now. “Thank you for your support, my lord. I appreciated your vote.”

He shrugs. “It felt like the right thing to do. I was wondering if we might talk.”

“Is there anything else you would like from me? I can return the armour as well if you would like, then you will be fully rid of me.”

“I do not want to be rid of you. Do you want to be rid of me?”

“You left me.” Flatly as she can. A fact.  

“Gods, do you ever show any emotion? Curse me, kiss me, call me a liar, something!”

“I have no wish to do any of those things, Ser.” _She is lying._ She would like to do at least two of those three things. The thought turns her tone bitter. “What I wish is for you to leave”

“You cannot complain about my leaving and then ask me to do so the next instant. At least Podrick’s method of beating me into the dirt was straightforward.”

Now that she looks at him, she does see the bruises mottling his face. It is difficult to believe her sweet squire would do that, much less on her behalf. He also looks skinnier, and worn down with age. She hopes the maesters are giving him proper care, and the maids are feeding him. Surely he would ask if he was going hungry? There is little more she can do about that then she has already done. She does not wish to embarrass herself and him with her attentions. It is clear he does not wish for her to do so. She can, however, speak with Pod. In her own unhappiness she has been neglecting her duties to her squire. “I will have a discussion with Pod about the matter. He will not do so again.”

“Is that concern I detect?”

“You do not deserve to be beaten, you are a …”

“Do you honestly still believe I am a good man? After all I have done.” Is he hopeful, or derisive? She cannot tell.

“You have done many good things. I have seen them. You tried to save the city. Twice.” She does not list his other good deeds, the ones he did for her, but she thinks of them. Wonders if he counts them alongside his slaying of Aerys, or if he regrets losing his hand for one such as herself.

“How are you not angry?” He asks. “I expected you to punch me at least once.” He might prefer that to her emotionless mask.

If she is angry, the sadness might slip through as well, and she cannot cry in front of him again. “I would not hit you unless you were trying to hurt someone I cared about. Then I would treat you as I treated the last man to attack those under my protection.”

He is silent for a long time at that, before he speaks. “What if someone tried to hurt me?”

Something surges in her at those words. He is probing her feelings, trying to get her to confess. Why? So she can be abandoned again? She will not allow him to. “You have guards. As a matter of fact, you have an army.”

“But would you fight for me?” He queries. “I would fight for you.” He offers. “I would kill them all, if you asked me to.”

“You confuse me with your sister.” Now she’s said it. She braces herself for his next words.  

“I do not. I care for you. Brienne, you must believe me” He protests. She expected anger for bringing up Cersei.

He may not be angry, but she is. That, she realizes, was the emotion struggling to get out. Not tears this time. Fury. How dare he lie to her face? How dare he leave her? Why is he standing in front of her, looking in the prime of health, a golden lion, making a game of pretending he cares? Is he crawling back now that Cersei is gone? When will he leave again?

She glares at him, allows the rage to overtake and insulate her. This is far better than her blank mask. She can barely feel the pain over the blood roaring in her ears.

“Words are wind, Ser. I learned that lesson a long time ago.” 


	11. Aragorn's Tax Policy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Pod have a talk. 
> 
> Sansa begins her reign. 
> 
> Title taken from a GRRM quote.

**Brienne**

Pod is standing in her chambers that evening, hovering. She sighs. “I will not break if you leave me alone, Podrick. I am not as fragile as that, though I may have been behaving as such.”

               “Of course not, Ser.” He sounds affronted at the idea.

               He has been so kind these past few months. The most loyal squire one could have. She struggles to recall the time when he was nothing more than a nuisance. Could it really have been so many years ago? It feel like yesterday he was a child, and now a veteran of the Long Night stands in his place. Sansa, Arya, even Jon – they are all too young to be so old.

               She wishes she could preserve the boy, for just a little longer. “The evening is yours, Podrick. Why not go out and enjoy it? Have a drink with your old friends?”

               “Tyrion and I are not speaking.” He sounds both proud and ashamed. 

               “Whyever not?”

               “We had a disagreement on certain issues … I told him we could not remain friends if he continued to support certain … persons and their … decisions” Now he sounds sad.

               “Podrick, sit down.” Brienne says quietly.  “They are family. It is natural that they would support and care for each other.” She does not know which pair of Lannister siblings she is referring to. 

               “But he betrayed you!”

               “He made me no promises.” Brienne knows this, realized it even at Winterfell. She does not know why she felt (still feels) as if he broke something.

               “He still broke his oaths.” Podrick apparently agrees with her feelings.

               “He only gave his oath to fight the dead, not her.”

               “He betrayed you.” Podrick repeats stubbornly.

               “Ser Jaime may have betrayed me.” She admits “Tyrion did not, and he certainly did not betray you. If I allow you to give up your friends for me, what kind of knight am I?”

               Podrick looks at her, slightly less convinced. She presses on. “You do not have to agree with you friends about everything. And you do not need to follow every move I make.” She pauses for emphasis. She promised she would talk with him about this. “Nor do you need to destroy anyone who causes me harm.”

               “He hurt you.”

               “Did hurting him help you?” She avoids saying _his_ name. 

               “It made him sorry.”

               “Did it? If he was not sorry before, I doubt a small beating would change his mind. Violence is not the answer to everything. Do you understand me?”

               After a while, Podrick nods. “I am sorry, my lady. I apologize. To you. I won’t apologize to him.” He adds the last part defiantly.

               “I won’t ask you to. But do go have a drink with Tyrion, and enjoy yourself.” She does her best to smile encouragingly, avoiding the memory of her last drink with Tyrion.

               “I thought you didn’t want me drinking wine?” With the difficult conversation over, Podrick’s sprits return.

               “You are getting too old for me to be telling you what to do. Too old to be a squire.” She smiles sadly. “I will speak to Lady Sansa about arranging a suitable knighting ceremony for you. I will also look for a suitable knight to perform it.”

               Pod looks startled. “I will not be knighted by anyone but you, Ser.” He says determinedly.

               Stopping the tears are a struggle again. At least they are not tears of misery this time. “If my knighthood is still recognized given recent events, I would be honoured to knight you.”

               Pod leaves looking happier than she has seen him in a while. It is good to see him regain some of his youthful energy. She feared he might have lost it. She wishes, selfishly, that she could keep him as a squire for just a little longer. But he really is too old to follow her around anymore.

               She used to follow Renly around, when he was right, and anything he disliked was wrong. Renly was simple, and easy to love. She remembers that time of ignorance fondly, perhaps more fondly then she ought. Before he died, and her world became more complicated. _Jaime made everything complicated_. He taught her so much, even when he left.  

               She followed Catelyn and Sansa around as well, but with a little less loving blindness. What will she do, once Sansa becomes queen? Will she remain Sansa’s sworn sword, protecting her lady until death? She suspects in peacetime she might grow bored of standing guard. Perhaps she will stay long enough to see that Sansa will be safe, and then leave for Tarth. She has not seen it in years, and her responsibilities (as well as her father) call to her.

               Tarth is a small Island. She thought it huge once, after taking a day to ride across it. Will everything be small when she returns? She could not stay there once, when war broke out. She doubts she could stay again, if there is trouble or war, not if she still has the ability to fight and protect those who need it. Besides, she would be expected to marry and birth children, and that is something she can no longer bear (not with anyone else).

               A quest might suit her best. She could remain in Sansa’s service then. Perform any tasks her lady requires. Wander Westeros, protecting the weak. It was once her dream, and it is still within her reach. But that was the dream of a child. Is it still what she wants? She can forget all the mess, all her failures and weaknesses that occurred in between. Return to simpler times. She desperately wishes she could forget.

But she cannot go back.

**Sansa**

               There is so much Sansa must do.               

The coronation was brief and modest, at Sansa’s request. Their funds are limited. Cersei saw fit to remove any gold (including that she paid the Golden Company) to Casterly Rock, and Sansa does not yet trust her authority will be obeyed if she orders the Westerlands to bring it back.

               She says goodbye to Jon and Arya, ordering them only to return someday. Arya nods; Jon suggests she journey north to visit him.

               She names the beginnings of her small council. Bran shall be Master of Whispers; Sansa is surprised when he volunteers for the position, and less surprised at his mysterious smile in response to her question why. She has promised Bronn Master of War; he wanted Master of Coin but Sansa does not trust him as far as she can throw him. Tyrion is, of course, to be her hand, and Master of Coin for now.

               In attendance at the first meeting are those she trusts. Brienne stands at her righthand side, naturally. Gendry looks befuddled as ever, but he is trustworthy. Dacey Mormont and Alys Karstark head the crowd of northerners. Davos and the Blackfish scowl in their corner; their experience will likely be the most useful when forming this new country.

               There are also many she does not trust, and some she is still unsure of. Can Edmure Tully and Robyn Arryn be relied upon for any thinking, anything more than supplying men? Sansa rather doubts it. At least they will obey her. From the Reach, Willas Tyrell, the new lord of Highgarden, is reported to be a decent man. Yara Greyjoy and Ariane Martell are unpredictable.  The Stormlands lords, few as they are, remind her far too much of the Baratheons, raging against each other or the wind, whichever is nearest. She particularly dislikes their leader, Ronnet Connington. The Westerlands are her greatest worry. Thanks to Cersei’s maneuvering they still have food, grain, and the only army which could rival her own. If they find a candidate to rally behind for the throne, her reign may be short.

               She is surrounded by so many potential enemies. Yet they are nothing compared to the last time she was in King’s Landing. She also has many friends now.

               Unfortunately, her new edicts are unlikely to win over her sceptics.

               “As our first order of business, I wish to confirm the document signed in the dragonpit. It allocates seats for the Masters of various areas, who may and should if possible reflect members of all seven kingdoms. 

               I would also like to add some corollaries to the document. Namely, we will be following Dornish succession law, effective immediately. In addition, I want it engraved in stone and in our laws that slavery is, as it has and always shall be, forbidden in Westeros. Finally, members of the Night’s Watch and the Kingsguard will no longer be required to serve for life.”

               Sansa sits to watch them squabble. She has a feeling they may take some time. She decides future small council meetings will contain only members of the small council. Perhaps a “great” council can assemble less frequently. She shudders to think how long it will take them to get through her tax plan if these simple decrees cause this much trouble.  


	12. A Dream of Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited chapter 11 a bit (mistakenly labelled chapter 12). Sorry about all the formatting errors. I am very much a novice at using this site - please let me know if I've messed up anything else, or if there is any established etiquette I'm failing at (or if my grammar is too horrendous).

**Jaime**

Why was it that they assumed all would be well the moment the new ruler’s arse hit the Iron Throne? Technically, Sansa hasn’t actually sat on the Iron Throne. It has been melted down for the steel. For all he knows, it now contributes to the castle cook’s pots. Or maybe it was made into chamber pots. He rather hopes it was. He’s always wanted to piss on the throne.  

The days blur by, as snow piles up on the ground. Each day the grain stores are counted, and each day the answer is the same: _not enough._ The small council is trying desperately to find a solution.

“Import from Essos?” Tyrion asks.

“With what gold?” Sansa responds. “The Iron Bank won’t loan to us. We can try to scavenge the Reach.”

“It’s a pity she burnt more grain than she did mouths.” Is Bronn’s comment. Everyone stares at him in horror. Bronn shrugs “What?”

“There’s gold in Casterly Rock.” Jaime offers tentatively. He doesn’t know what his position is anymore; no one seems to trust him, or want his advice. Yet he hasn’t been placed in cell, or on trial.

There’s a long pause after he speaks, and a long stare between Sansa and Tyrion. “Write to the castellan.” Sansa says finally.

The truth of the matter seems to have leaked out into the city. There are runs on the granaries. Many of the lords (or those that prepared for winter) leave for their well stocked castles, promising to send food to the city. Most do not. Sansa keeps careful track of those who do. She seems to think they’ll live long enough to reward them.

Jaime does not. He’s lived in a city like this once before, as Robert Baratheon’s army marched on it. Those who can leave flee as fast as they can. The market stalls close. The poor freeze in the streets. They have enough food to last the city a year, but a long summer means a long winter. Jaime knows the city will not survive. Tyrion urges evacuation; Brienne offers Tarth as a suitable haven for a government in exile.

Sansa refuses to leave until all hope is lost. She refuses to cut off the feed lines to the city, to barricade herself into the Red Keep and let everyone else starve. Jaime respects her for it, and goes back to doing what he did while Aerys was King. Dream of a miracle. _Grain arriving from Essos._ _Gold from Casterly Rock. A secret store of food, instead of wildfire, beneath the city._

The miracle which does arrive is not the one he expects, because he would never have dreamed it could happen.

One day he awakes to the sound of dripping. He goes to the washstand first, expecting to find water dripping off the edge. The water is calm, but the rhythmic plinks are louder here, near the window. So he opens it, bracing for the cold, and is shocked by what he finds.

The icicles outside his window are melting. As it melts, drops hit the windowsill. He worries, at first, that it means nothing. Ice has been known to melt at high noon, long before winter ends. But it is not high noon. And the wind blowing through the window is warm from the south. The air is heavier, less crisp, and it does not burn his nose when he breaths.

Bran confirms it at breakfast. _Spring has come. In the span of months, not years._

Now that the white walkers are gone, seasons will be shorter, with the world cycling through all of them each year. Perhaps that is why ancient men first began counting their lives in years, as opposed to moons.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

               They are saved from starvation, and now they must bring the realm into line. Bandits terrorize the Riverlands and the Stormlands, the Dothraki ravage the Westerlands, and the wildlings squabble with the Northerners. At least the Ironborn don’t reave the coasts anymore. And Dorne is quiet.

Jaime is not inclined to visit Dorne again. He isn’t particularly eager to (once again) clean up the mess that is the Riverlands, but it seems that is his task. He was allowed to chose his second in command, Adam Marbrand, but was also forced to take a motely collection of hedge knights. Connington, Lockhart, Partridge – lesser houses grasping for power in the new regime. To make his joy more complete, the Blackfish will be riding with him. He was banned from asking Brienne to come; he assumes she would have said no anyway.

Brienne is to be sent south into the Stormlands, where her father has been declared Lord Paramount until Gendry feels ready to take on the role. Jaime has not tried to approach her again. She has ignored him with the same determination that he used to follow her around Winterfell. Perhaps with time spent away, she may begin to miss him. He already misses her. More likely, she will decide she was a fool to ever allow him in her life. He cannot blame her if she does.

**Brienne**

               Brienne has never been in command of anything. For one, no man would take orders from her. For another, no one she served believed she could lead (follow orders, yes, but not lead). But Sansa does, and despite her mixed successes (all the men lost on the right flank), Sansa continues to promote her.

               This often seems to mean sending Brienne away from her. Sansa trusts Brienne, she knows that much. Trusts her to stay loyal even when out of her reach. Brienne is glad of that. She is also glad to be leaving King’s Landing, and its politics. Glad to be returning home. Glad to be doing something of use.

               Her orders are to bring order to the Stormlands. Root out bandits, and other less savoury tasks. Deposing various lords who failed to give aid to Kings Landing. Taking sons and daughters hostages. The Stormlands rebelled once, and they are apt to do so again. Her fathers lordship must be secured, and the lords must be taught to respect her.

               She’ll get to see her father again, at least. He has left Tarth at last (he has not done so in her memory), and now sits at Storm’s End. She has missed him dearly. She worries about his health, and about his desire to have her home and settled. But she looks forward to seeing him nonetheless.    

               The men are wary of her. Not antagonistic, but dismissive. She hears the whispers well enough. “Who put her in charge?” “Why not the Baratheon boy?” “Ugly beast of a women.” They question her competence, her skill with a blade. Her orders are obeyed, but not promptly, and not before a nod from one of her seconds. She knows if she gives an order they dislike, they will not obey.

               She tires of their questioning glances quickly enough. She does not mind them calling her ugly, or a woman (she is both, after all), but her skills as a warrior are one thing she has always been able to take pride in. So she issues a challenge.       

They line up to fight her, and she knocks the line down, one by one.          

When she offers lessons the next day, some of the young men, not yet set in their ways, line up again to learn. Boys, most of them, but some girls as well.

The next day, she finds tracks indicating a group of men have passed through. When she informs the knights they will be following them, they raise their brows in disbelief. When she does find a pack of ruffians at the end of the trail, they are forced to lower them. When she outlines her plan to surround them silently in the dark hours of the night, they listen. When she slays five of the bandits in single combat, they stare.

               A few days later, they stop at Mistwood. Lord Mertyns approaches her about taking his son as a squire. She looks at the boy; arrogant and entitled, he seems to think he does her a favour by asking. She looks at the dark haired girl standing next to him and says “I will not take your son, but I will take your daughter if she wishes”.

               Then are more bandits, and more lords to be dealt with. With each day Brienne grows wearier of the horses plodding through the spring mud. Until they finally reach Storm’s End and she sees a tall figure standing in front. Waiting for her.

_“Father”_ She breaths out, and dismounts from her horse, nearly face planting when her foot catches in the stirrup. She hurries towards him as fast as she can without running, and then she is caught up in his arms, feeling as if she is a small child once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole happily ever after, everything is fine now ending seemed really disjointed to me. Because it is still the middle of winter, and all the food is burnt. Also the entire system of law has sort of disintegrated.
> 
> Slightly more exciting stuff to come next chapter.


	13. Goldenhand the Just

**Jaime**

               There is yet another feast at the Harrenhal. It is almost as abominable as the last meal he ate there. He glances to his side. The Blackfish refused to eat at the Twins, and Jaime wishes he could claim the same for Harrenhal.

               As he rises, the Blackfish turns to cut him down with a stare. “Leaving so soon? After your _great_ victory?”

               They’d fought starving men in the rain. It had been far more difficult to find good men to raise to lordship of all the empty castles. “The atmosphere disagrees with me.” He gestures with his stump at the riotous feast.

               The Blackfish smiles grimly. “I heard you lost your hand here, for a maiden fair.”

               Jaime smiles back, coldly “Nowhere so grand. A clearing in the woods.”

               He hooks a wineskin off the table as he turns to go. Then he walks out into the cool of the night, taking a breath for what feels like the first time in hours, grateful to have escaped the hot, oppressive air of the banquet hall.

               He wanders through the darkened castle, swigging from his wine skin and looking up at the stars. He sees an open area with seats, and his tired mind ambles towards it. It is only once he enters that he realizes he has entered the bear pit.

               He goes to the rail in a sort of trance, lost in memory. The roar of the crowd and the bear, Brienne’s defiant shout. He doesn’t remember deciding to jump, only the shock on her face when he landed.

               “Touring the sites of Harrenhal, my lord?” The man nods companionably at him.

               Jaime is startled into taking a step back. He peers into the dark; a shock of red hair, and embroidered griffins on the doublet. Red Ronnet Connington.  He does not know the man. Well, no harm in being friendly. No harm in being unfriendly either.

               “Remembering old times.”

               “Ah. You fought a bear for your whore in here, eh? To think, I almost married her before I saw her face. What a sight. Did you have her with your eyes closed?” He chuckles. Jaime does not. Something in his silence seems to warn the man, because his tone turns more conciliatory. “No offense meant my lord – not many options up North. Besides, I’m sure the bitch enjoyed -”

               Jaime’s golden hand cracks him across the face as hard as he can swing it, knocking him back and over the railing. A cudgel, he thinks. I’ll have to have one made. For occasions such as these .

“She is a knight. You will refer to her by her title, should you dare mention her in my presence again.”

               Ronnet spits blood from the bottom of the bear pit. Jaime turns and walks away. Perhaps leaving him to spend the night among the bones will teach him to mind his manners.

**Brienne**

There is a feast ( _again_ ), in a hall with rough stone walls ( _again_ ) and Brienne is surrounded by her friends ( _it always surprises her that she has any_ ). Earlier, there was a knighting ceremony. The new knight sits beside her now.

               “To Ser Podrick” Davos exclaims, raising his glass to the roof.

               “Ser Podrick” echos back from the room.  Brienne smiles as she joins the cheers. Her smile falters a bit when she meets her fathers gaze.

               _He’d drew her aside to talk after their greeting on the steps. “Your men can handle unpacking,” he’d said with a smile._

_The smile faded, his expression turning serious, when he sat down on the other side of the great wooden desk. She gripped the arms of her chair tightly, willing the nervousness down. She feels as if she is the naïve young girl again, asking for permission to join Renly’s army._

_“I thought you’d come back sooner.” He shakes his head ruefully._

_“I am sorry to disappoint you.” She always has been._

_He sighs quietly. “You never disappoint. I hoped you’d return home after Renly lost, after Catelyn died, after the Battle of Winterfell was won. But you never gave up that easily. You did everything you set out to accomplish when you left home, and achieved things I never dreamed of, Ser.” He smiles. “I always knew you were a knight, but I never thought any of those fools would see it.”_

_Her eyes are watering now. She did not know how much she needed this, a simple conversation with the only one who has ever truly loved her, all these years._

_He hands her a handkerchief. “Don’t cry now.” He says, although his own eyes glimmer with tears. “I’ve been hearing tales about your fearsome reputation for weeks now. Wouldn’t want to ruin it.”_

_They sit in quiet silence for a while before he speaks again. “What will you do next?”_

_“I don’t know.” She admits._

_“You are not returning to Tarth.” He guesses._

_“No” She whispers, afraid to see the disappointment in his eyes._

_“Look at me, Brienne.” She looks. He does not look disappointed. He looks proud?_

_“I suppose I will have to resign myself to hearing about my brave daughter only from passing bards.” She wonders what the songs do say of her. Surely, they cannot all be flattering? He has not mentioned Ser Jaime yet, for which she is grateful. He must know she does not wish to talk about it. He has also not mentioned marriage. He stopped after her third betrothal, for which she is immanently grateful._

_“I will try to write more.”_

_“If you can. I look forward to your ravens.” He stands to leave. “Should you ever tire of doing great deeds, I will welcome you home.” He’s not much for words, her father. A trait she inherited. But he does love her._

**Sansa**

“What do you want, Ser Jaime?” Sansa asks.

“You summoned me, you tell me, my lady.” That mocking smile again. She is never sure if it is an act. All the Lannisters she has ever met seem born with a talent for deception.

“You’re getting Casterly Rock.”

“I don’t care about it.” He replies automatically. How many times, and people has he said this to? None of them ever believed him.

Sansa believes him. It’s the only reason she’s giving it to him. “You’re getting it anyway. As well as the task of clearing the Dothraki, and forcing your lords to pay my taxes. You had also better ship all the gold Cersei stole from the Treasury back.”

“What do I get if I do?” Jaime asks. _Nothing_ is probably the answer. Or _your worthless life_ might be it.

“What do you want?” Sansa has surprised him, she can tell. No one has ever asked what he wants. Unconsciously, his gaze strays to a point about a foot above and to the right of Sansa..

_Ah._  Sansa thinks. _That’s interesting information._ Brienne is back, but not on guard right now.

“If I had my way, you wouldn’t be allowed in the same Keep as Lady Brienne for the rest of your days.”

“That seems to be exactly what giving me Casterly Rock will accomplish.”

Sansa is ice personified. “Do you know, I would have said yes, once upon a time? You could have it all.” She glares at him. “Yet you threw it away to chase a dream. I almost feel sorry for you. You are your own worst enemy.” 

“I was trying. To be better. For her. _I am trying_ ”

“You will never be good enough.”

“That’s it then?”

“You’ll take Casterly Rock, and stay in it, or I’ll take your head”

“How do you plan on accomplishing that? Would you make Brienne kill me?”

Sansa would not do that. To be honest, Brienne is most of the reason he’s alive right now. The other reason is his value as a hostage. But after weeks of negotiations, in return for paying taxes, she has agreed to give the Westerlands their liege lord back.

“I have other sworn swords.” She sees him shudder, and smiles to think her little sister can inspire such fear. Or is it her he fears? He ought to. “And there are plenty of ways to make you miserable without killing you.”

 He stands, sees her start to speak. “Spare me your ‘go rot in hell’, you’ve managed to get that message across.”

Sansa smiles sweetly. “Enjoy your gold, Lord Lannister.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

He leaves the Keep with the intention of never returning. _Leaves her._

He looks back once, as they crest the hill the city will disappear behind, to catch one last glimpse of his home of nearly three decades. He’d always hated it. But he’d loved Cersei more. And he loves Brienne the most. So he’ll leave, to spare her the pain of seeing him each day. To spare himself the pain of seeing her wed, and happy with another man. He could bear her scorn, but he cannot bear that.

        Until the end of his days, he’ll praise the Seven that he looked back. Because when he does, smoke billows from the Keep.


	14. Jaime gets a well-deserved yelling at

**Jaime**

               Jaime wheels his horse around, barking orders at his troops. _Brienne is in the Keep._ With Daenerys having burnt everything that could organizing a fire brigade was not a priority of the relief efforts. Assuming the same disaster would not strike twice seems foolish in retrospect, especially considering the flammable nature of the temporary shelters.

               “Calm yourself, my lord.” The old man who speaks is one of his father’s old cronies. “This is nothing you need concern yourself with”

               “The city is on fire!” Jaime stares at them, wondering at their lack of reaction. A vague suspicion tugs at his gut.

               “The Dothraki raid is beginning.” Despite the harsh winter Lord Widden is still fat. “King’s Landing makes a far more tempting target than our fortified castles, although it took awhile to convince them of that.”

               Another Lord smiles obsequiously at him. “Not to worry, all is going to plan. If the savages don’t manage to kill the queen, we have a troop waiting in the tunnels. No one will ever realize you were involved.”

               They’ve betrayed him. No. They’ve betrayed Sansa. They intend to crown him. But they didn’t consult him when concocting this plan. Why would they? Silly, stupid, Jaime, who believes people when they say they want peace. _The stupidest Lannister._ Why does he still expect (hope) everyone will be reasonable?

               Jaime has had enough of these men and their sneers. They watched him growing up, the precious golden heir. His inability to read, his lack of interest in lordship, his foolish murder of the king. They will crown him, and expect a happy puppet. They fancy themselves the next Tywin Lannister.  

               There have been enough Tywin Lannisters.

               “You are under arrest for treason.” His horse is dancing beneath him, sensing his impatience to be off. But he must deal with these men first.

               One of the lords chuckles, not realizing he is serious. “A fine jape, my lord.”

               Another recognizes his severity but still smiles in satisfaction. “Do you intend to have our men arrest us? Stop this foolishness. You are to be King.”

               Bristling at being spoken to like a boy, Jaime nonetheless sees his point. He is surrounded by loyal Westerlands soldiers, brought in by the lords to escort him. They are not Lannister soldiers. A movement makes him glance to his back, and he sees his old friend Adam Marbrand. Adam did not arrive with this escort, but left the Keep with him.

               He feels a surge of disappointment. “Even you, Adam?”

               But Adam shakes his head. “I did not know Jaime, I swear it.” He wheels his horse about, guarding Jaime’s back.

               “Enough.” Lord Westerling speaks this time. “This is no time for petty rebellion.” He gestures to his troops, which make up the majority of their forces. Perhaps fifty men, but still far too many for him to fight, even if he retained two hands. “Seize them.”

               The men hesitate. Jaime assumes they are reluctant to be the first to attack, and especially reluctant to be the first attack a man who might be king someday. A sergeant steps forward and looks at his Lord. Jaime gets ready to unsheathe his sword.

                “My sister works in the Red Keep.” The man pivots. “Arrest these men.”

**Brienne**

Brienne is losing this fight.

               There are too many of them, and not enough of hers. She sent too many to deal with the fire, and the Dothraki. Beside her, another soldier goes down. It is her and Pod now.

               The corridor is narrow, and that has saved them so far. Eventually, they will be worn down. Or they will fetch a bowman. Although they wear no livery, the men move with training.

Behind her, Sansa, Tyrion and the remaining Kingsguard have hopefully barricaded the door. It is clear the goal is the queen – if it was King’s Landing, they would not have taken such care to remove her protectors or infiltrate the Keep. Kill or capture, that is the question. Brienne would prefer neither.

She slices the head off one of the men, and she has a moments reprieve before the hallway is blocked. Two men with heavy shields and long reaching spears. Clever.

She shoves Pod behind her, ignoring his indignant shout. She will die before harm comes to him, at least. She waits until they have almost reached her before lunging forward with a grimace and clamping one of the spear shafts under her arm. She can feel blood well up in her armpit, but better then a vital organ.

Brienne drops to the floor, dragging the one spearman with her, and cutting under the shield to remove the feet of the other. He flails and his spear tip comes up, slicing her cheek.

The first drops the spear she grabbed, and scrambles to his feet, throwing his shield to the ground. It lands heavily on her left side. He draws his sword, and she rolls frantically backwards to avoid the strike, but it glances off her shoulder plate and into her ribs anyway.

Pod steps forward and drives his blade deep into her assailant’s chest. She accepts his hand as she staggers to her feet, clutching her side, sword raised to await the next wave.

The hallway is clear, and she frowns in confusion. Sounds of fighting echo from the next room – her men must have returned from the walls in time to save them. She lurches to the wall, clutching it for support. Blood stains her hands.

“My lady!” Blurrily, she sees Pods face, far too close to her. She must have fallen to her knees. She leans back, sliding down the wall to land on her rump. She is tired now, she finds. Tired and cold. But Sansa – she looks behind her to check the door is intact; Sansa is safe. Pod is safe too – she can see him in front of her.

Another face appears in front of her, one she doesn’t expect. _He left._ Perhaps her dying imagination has conjured him? She ought not to say his name, or Pod will wonder what’s wrong with her. Spots form around the edges of her vision. She ought to get up, and check on Sansa. She makes an effort to stand up, and discovers she is now lying on the floor. I’ll need to sit up first, then. But there are people surrounding her, and she is being hoisted onto a stretcher.

Jaime is next to her again. _You’re going to be alright,_ he promises. She smiles hazily. She isn’t alright, but everyone else is. She protected them. _It’s alright._ She thinks. _As long as they’re safe._ _She doesn’t matter_. _Everything’s alright._ She tries to tell Jaime, to reassure him.

He looks alarmed, but she can fell herself falling asleep. _Don’t fall asleep,_ he says. But she drifts away anyway.

**Jaime**

“You should summon every lord in the Seven Kingdoms without proven loyalty” Jaime paces the room. “Then cut off their heads.”

               Sansa frowns pensively. “It would certainly save time.”

               Alarmed by their bloodthirst, Tyrion cuts in “It would plunge the newly stabilized realm into a chaos of disputed successions, and would certainly mean the execution of innocent men”

“Are there any innocent men?” Sansa ponders.

Tyrion looks horrified. He stumbles to get out his next sentence “Your Grace,” He pleads “If …“

Sansa raises an eyebrow at him. “Peace, Tyrion. I am not the dragon queen. I do not seriously intend to enact your brother’s proposal.” She turns to Jaime. “I would like to point out that if I began executing Lords with dubious loyalty your head would be first on the chopping block.”

Ned Stark would truly be proud. “What have I ever done but protect my family! You Starks have your little pack …”

Sansa stands “Protecting your family does not have to mean destroying others. Maybe you should have focused less on protecting your family, and more on protecting the world from them.”

Jaime sighs. “I acknowledge that I should have stopped Cersei after she burned the Sept.” He sees the look on Sansa’s face. “Mayhaps sooner.”

“There are countless things you could have prevented, _Kingslayer_ , had you but bothered to try.”

“I am sick of your judgement, little Stark. You dare critique my actions? I saved this city.”  

“Is the Mad King your excuse for everything, Kingslayer?”

“What do you know of that?”

“Brienne told me the truth of that years ago! You seem to think the world turned against you that day, but you never even tried tell that side of the story. You know why?

You used Aerys as an excuse to be rude, to scorn all the rest. It meant you didn’t have to try and not be despicable, because no one expected you to be! There was only one person in all of winterfell who expected more of you, and you failed her.”

Sansa shakes her head. “You always manage to disappoint.”

Jaime collapses into a chair, unable to face her. Unable to stand and do nothing while Brienne may die in the next room.

Tyrion comes to his defense, as always. Why does Tyrion always believe in him? It’s exhausting, the expectation that he can be a better man. It’s why he preferred not to be. It is so much easier to be hateful.

“He came back, Sansa.” Tyrion points out. “He’s trying.” He shoots a look at Jaime.

Sansa looks at Jaime, evaluating him. “Very well.” She says finally. “You came back. What do you intend to do now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize this fic has a lot of people yelling at Jaime. Mostly because I really want to yell “WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING” at Jaime. 
> 
> The yelling bits are mostly over, as Jaime attempts to improve his behavior and learns to respect people outside his family. Mostly. 
> 
> I apologize if anyone was waiting for an update - the schedule will likely continue to be infrequent, but I do intend to finish this.

**Author's Note:**

> Because Brienne is not someones biographer, and Jaime ought to have some sort of character arc and purpose. First work, reviews/comments very welcomed (I do read them - I promise, and they mean a lot to me).


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